art by Unitas Quick
“I shall stick to my resolution of writing always what I think no matter whom it offends.” – Julia Ward Howe, 1819-1910: abolitionist, activist and poet.
Bubblegum Slutbomb
Ingrid is a full figured, open tongued, bedroom blonde
she chews hubba bubba bubble gum
and can buck buck suck –
a strait laced, no frills easy fuck,
she speaks in a squeaky baby style
a breathy vocal fry
and flutters shiny
cadillac eyes
sometimes they say hello
and always say goodbye
‘I’m not a victim,’ she would say
sock rocking the nights, and days
‘I choose to sex -work the streets: the first time’s
easy,
you just make believe –
you’re home coming queen,’
it’s a feminist libretto,
neo ‘sluts’, claim
man -da -tory for a fast track – career break –
and she can syndicate the porno tape
televise a scripted date rape,
get a publicist on speed dial
and big bucks as a reality tv bride.
Ingrid skinny streaks the pole
punters and peanut pricks,
tossing her dough,
hitting her thong
for a pussy song
She dreamt of white picket fences
and soccer runs
a small town- easy Elysium
dreaming her way out of a deadbeat abyss,
with Kentucky prime bourbon and lilac starfish.
French Kiss Your Insomnia
but you can steel feel
the wind slow jive
as the leaves on the trees
twerk left and right,
while the night pipes,
a lonely dirge to blood tingling stars
walking through penniless streets
pock marked with
partially naked
noodle pots,
and condom wrappers
this morning’s papers
and dozens of lost lottery tickets
that stick to the paving stones
you swallow regret
and stand alone
in the bowels of a living grave
7/11 is empty
you’re tapping for
a cigarette
a call for help –
witching hour sos
you need to speak to someone,
anyone, but that
stray cat
yowling for scraps
“Hello,” your voice
rattles in between
shelves of Twinkies
and local cookie dough
the original twilight show
a chalky faced man appears
dusted with orange fuzz
and rejection lines
pastes on a strictly 9-5, work clerk smile
you slide the smokes on the counter
you don’t feel like a clock in wash out number
for a minute, you feel everything’s alright
and you want to tell him the truth about
all your nothings,
but your mouth’s clamped tight
with invisible ties
metal ribbons
that bind
you sigh and say
“Thanks,” and hand
over the cash.
Back outside, the air
respires with resignation
and the tang of Indian spice.
Junco Pam
She walks like Blind Willie Mctell,
one heel higher than the other,
her duck butt squeezed into black rubber
and drug store nylons gashed at the knee,
she’s got blue disco ball eyes like shiny crystal lights
and a do me or lose me smile
she drinks whiskey from a paper bag
and will kissy kiss bhang bang
those double pout lips
open for business
When the moon comes out,
Junco Pam starts shaking her tatas
this lonely bathroom aria
an orchestral manoeuvre
sleeking creamy thighs
snake lick-lick inside
she keeps it tight,
slides deep for the ride
Sometimes you can hear her whisper
to the singing spiders that crawl across the heavens
silver arachnids weaving threaded castles and webbed sculptures
on a slash
of black sky.
